Finding Hiccup - Modern!Au ✔️

twenty five

So Heather's basically not speaking anymore. To anyone.
Actually, I quite like a silent Heather. It's peaceful around the place. But it's stressing Mum out. She even spoke to her teacher at school, who was, according to her, "Useless! Worse than useless! He said Heather seemed 'fine' to him and we should 'let her alone.' 'Let her alone,' can you believe it?" (I know this because I was outside Mum's room while she was sounding off to Dad.)
Tonight she's sitting at supper, eating her enchiladas without looking at anyone, staring ahead like a zombie. When Mum or Dad ask her anything, like "Have you got much homework?" or "What happened today at school?" she just answers with a "Phrrrmph" noise, or rolls her eyes or ignores them.
I'm not feeling Mr. Chatty either tonight, so it's not the liveliest dinner table. In fact, we all look up in relief when Snotlout comes down the stairs from the playroom in his tractor pyjamas.
"I didn't do my homework," he says, looking worried. "My homework, Mummy."
He's holding out some kind of transparent folder with a sheet in it.

"Oh, for God's sake," says Mum.
"Homework?" says Dad. "For a four-year-old?"
"I know." Mum sighs. "It's nuts." She pulls out the sheet and it's a big photocopied page entitled Why we love each other. Under the heading, Snotlout has drawn what I assume is a picture of us. At least, there are five figures. Mum looks pregnant and Dad looks like a gnome. I have a head the size of a pin and twenty very large circular fingers. But, you know, apart from that it's pretty accurate.
" 'Fill in the box with help from your family,' " Mum reads. " 'For example, "We love each other because we give each other cuddles." ' " She reaches for a pen. "OK. What shall I put? Sam, what do you love about our family?"
"Pizza," says Snotlout promptly.
"We can't put pizza."
"Pizza!" wails Snotlout. "I love pizza!"
"I can't put, 'We love each other because of pizza.' "
"I think that's a pretty good answer," says Dad, shrugging.
"I'll do it," says Heather, grabbing the page, and we all look up in shock. Heather spoke! She takes a black Sharpie from her pocket and reads aloud as she writes:
" 'We love each other because we respect each other's choices and understand when a person has a hobby that they love, and would never deliberately damage their property.' Oh, wait."
"Heather, you can't write that!" says Mum sharply.
It's a bit late to say that, since she's already written it. In permanent ink.
"Great!" Mum glares at Heather. "So now you've ruined your brother's homework sheet."
"I've spoken the truth." Heather glowers back at her. "You can't handle the truth."

"A Few Good Men," says Dad promptly. "I didn't know you'd seen that."
"YouTube." Heather gets to her feet and heads over to the dishwasher.
"Well, marvellous," says Mum, looking totally pissed off. "Now we can't send this in. I'll have to write a note in his link book. 'Dear Mrs. Lacy, unfortunately Sam's homework was...' what?"
"Chewed by rats," I suggest.
" 'Inapplicable to the Haddock family as they do not understand the concept of love beyond their own self-serving version,' " comes Heather's sonorous voice from the sink.
As she slouches out of the kitchen, Mum and Dad exchange glances.
"That girl needs a hobby," mutters Mum. "We should never have let her give up the cello."
"Please not the cello again," says Dad, looking alarmed. "I think she's beyond the cello."
"I'm not saying the cello!" snaps Mum. "But something. What do teenagers do these days?"
"All sorts of things." Dad shrugs. "Win Olympic medals, get into Harvard, create Internet companies, star in blockbuster films..." As he trails off, he looks a bit depressed.
"She doesn't need to win a medal," says Mum firmly. "She just needs an interest. What about the guitar?" Her face brightens. "Can she still play that? Why don't you two jam together in the garage?"
"We tried that once," says Dad, pulling a face. "Remember? It wasn't a success...but we can try again!" he amends quickly, at Mum's expression. "Good idea! We'll have a bit of a jamming session. Father and daughter. We'll play some tracks, get in the beers—I mean, not the beers," he adds hastily as Mum opens her mouth. "No beers."

"And she should volunteer," says Mum with sudden determination. "Yes! That's what Heather can do. Volunteer."

I'm sitting at the dinner table later that evening, fiddling with the playback on my camera, when Heather shuffles down the stairs.
"Oh, hi." I raise my head, remembering something. "Listen, I haven't interviewed you yet. Can we do it?"
"I don't want to be interviewed."
Heather looks like she hates everyone and everything. Her face is pale. Her eyes are bloodshot. She looks less healthy than when she was gaming all the time.
"OK." I shrug. I reach for a Dorito from the bowl still sitting on the table. We had Tex-Mex for supper tonight, which is the only time Mum buys crisps. It's like, if they're Doritos and scooping up guacamole then they don't count as junk food. "So..." I try to speak casually. "I was wondering..."
My voice is letting me down. It doesn't sound casual, it sounds over-alert. On the other hand, I don't think Heather is in a noticing mood.
"Is Ally coming over?" It comes out in a hurry and I sound the opposite of casual, but there you go. I've asked.
Heather turns her head to give me a murderous glare.
"Why would Ally come over?"
"Well...because..." I'm confused. "Have you had a fight?"
"No, I haven't had a fight." Her eyes are so bleak and full of anger, I flinch. "I've been dropped from the team."
"Dropped from the team?" I stare at her in shock. "But it was your team."

"Well, I can hardly play now, can I?"
Her voice is all muffled and low. I have a horrible feeling she wants to cry. I haven't seen Heather cry since she was about ten.
"Heather." I feel a huge wave of sorrow for her. In fact, I think I might cry for her instead. "Have you told Mum?"
"Told Mum?" she lashes out. "What, so she can stand there and cheer?"
"She wouldn't!" I say. But actually I'm not sure.
The thing about Mum is, she doesn't know what she's talking about. I don't mean that in a bad way. It's just, no adults do. They're totally ignorant, but they're in control. It's nuts. The parents are in charge of all the stuff like technology in the house and time on screens and hours on social media, but then their computer goes wrong and they're like a baby, going, "What happened to my document?" "I can't get Facebook." "How do I load a picture? Double-click what? What does that mean?"
And we have to sort it out for them.
So Mum probably would cheer if she heard Heather wasn't on the team anymore. And then in the next breath she'd say, "Darling, why don't you take up a hobby and join a team?"
"I'm really sorry, Heather," I say, but she doesn't react. The next minute she's shuffled back up the stairs and I'm left alone with the Doritos.